


The Bard & the Butt Plug

by paper_ravenstag



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Butt Plugs, Explicit Sexual Content, Less Experienced Jaskier, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:55:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22251298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paper_ravenstag/pseuds/paper_ravenstag
Summary: Jaskier feels lonely and decides to buy a sex toy.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 31
Kudos: 1014





	The Bard & the Butt Plug

**Author's Note:**

> I love the idea of a softer, sweeter Jaskier. Sure, he's all sexually confident later but what if he got that way because an experienced Witcher taught him the bulk of his carnal knowledge? ;) 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Not beta'd - all mistakes are my own.

Sometimes, if you knew just where to look, you could find a merchant who carried goods that catered to patrons with… more unusual appetites. These places did not advertise their specialty wares. No -- rather their existence was shared in hushed murmurs in the darkest corners of taverns by men well into their cups. 

Sometimes, when one was especially lonely and on their fifth tankard of ale, one’s courage is fortified enough to seek such a place out.

Jaskier eyed the sagging tent with some hesitation. The wooden poles of the tent creaked faintly as the wind picked up and the first drops of moisture began to fall from the grey sky above. A rickety wooden table was set up just under the lip of an orange awning, covered in a myriad of odds and ends. Spools of twine, a set of pewter cups, unusual colored stones that seemed to glow faintly all on their own… Bits and bobs, food and more. Nothing out of the ordinary and absolutely nothing he wanted.

“Welcome! Welcome!” cried the merchant, suddenly aware that he had a customer. 

The man was tall and lean like a stalk of corn, dressed in a blue tunic covered in small splatters of mud from the road. He was altogether ordinary and unassuming – but that was how it was supposed to be, right? 

Gods above, Jaskier hoped so. 

The last thing he wanted was for this to be not only a waste of time, but a mortifying waste of time. Mustering his resolve, Jaskier adjusted the lute upon his shoulder and stepped closer to get out of the drizzling rain.

Here went nothing… 

The merchant smiled widely and pushed up the small spectacles on his face with long fingers. Clasping his hands together in eagerness, he motioned for Jaskier to come closer, encouraging him to pick through his wares. 

“Behold, good sir! Treasures and finds from across the lands. I’ve got bolts of the finest silk – perfect for creating a stunning outfit for a gentleman bard such as yourself. Just the right shade of blue to bring out your eyes… Or perhaps some extra strings for your instrument? Only the finest quality, of course! Why I got these…”

Jaskier’s eyelids fluttered as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He groaned quietly, frustrated. He was going to have to cut the man off sooner rather than later if he wanted to be gone and on his way. 

Nervous energy thrummed through his veins along with the heady buzz of alcohol. He had staged a rather successful (thank you very much) performance earlier that day that had resulted in a nice bit of coin and more free drinks than he was used to. Why, if Geralt had been there he would have surely had to finally admit that it was nothing short of a marvelous act.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure they are excellent,” cut in Jaskier. “However, umm, that’s not what I’m in the market for today, you see.”

The merchant paused and stroked his short beard thoughtfully. 

“Ahh. Perhaps a gift then? Something to woo a special lady? I have just thing! Why, these bracelets from Novigrad are absolutely all the rage right now – can barely keep them in stock…”

He turned away from Jaskier to dig through a large sack just as the bard raised his hand in an attempt to interrupt. Oh for fuck’s sake. This was rapidly going downhill in a flaming cart full of blast powder and kindling. 

“Actually, look here my good man,” said Jaskier in a rushed breath. “I was hoping to peruse some of your less… popular wares. I’ve got a friend with, uh, “unusual” tastes and I agreed to do him a favor. You know, to check – just to see what might be available. Maybe. For him.”

Owlish eyes blinked back at Jaskier from behind the smudged lenses of absurdly round spectacles. The merchant cleared his throat and placed both hands on the table between them with a thump. 

“Unusual, you say? How unusual?”

The bard shifted from foot to foot but straightened up to meet the other man’s gaze. He could do this. Just a bit of shopping, nothing to get riled up about. Right? Right.

“Well… He’s a bit of a – collector, if you will…of objects of the erotic nature.”

“Say no more,” chirped the merchant. “Like I always say, I’ve got something for everyone.”

Maybe they were finally getting somewhere.

The man waved for Jaskier to come around the table and motioned for him to kneel down beside him. From beneath a dizzying array of canvas sacks and crates, a small box was revealed. It was slender, made of a shiny black wood that piqued the bard’s curiosity. 

Jaskier’s blue eyes flit up to meet the merchant’s before he reached out and raised the lid of the box. Resting within a nest of linen scraps was a rather sizeable glass plug. It was moderately long and certainly thick, the flared base elegantly tapering off into a blunt end that resembled the head of a man’s cock. 

A gust of wind whooshed into the tent making the awning above flap noisily. Jaskier tucked a stray dark lock behind his ear and swallowed. He closed the lid.

“Unusual enough?” asked the merchant curiously.

“Quite,” said Jaskier softly. 

Coins skittered between palms and Jaskier hurried away as the sky rumbled and the wind picked up. Wooden shutters creaked and swung noisily on their hinges as the bard skipped around growing puddles and furrows of mud toward the village’s inn. Why, if his luck continued to hold the inn would still have a room available. He bit his lip and crossed his fingers. 

\- -

Up, up, up uneven steps to the very top of the building lay the last available room at the inn. The proprietress assured the soggy bard that while the room was not large, it did in fact have a fireplace and a bed newly stuffed with fresh straw. For three extra crowns a hot bath within the privacy of his own room could even be arranged. 

Jaskier had readily agreed – all this sounded heavenly.

The woman nodded with satisfaction and turned to shout for a young man who had been sweeping up dried mud from the common room floor. The lad bobbed his head in understanding and ambled off on gangly limbs to prepare Jaskier’s room for the night. 

“Care fo’ a drink, lad? Ye looks like ye could do wit’ some warmth,” offered the woman.

“Most kind of you, madam. Got any Cintran ale?” asked Jaskier.

The bard opted to take his drink to a long wooden bench before the inn’s large stone hearth. With each sip from the chipped flagon, the brunet’s adrenaline began to fizzle out and his mind began to wander. His mind went to where it always went when he wasn’t caught up in dogged musical composition or distracting himself with pretty smiles and perfumed skirts.

Geralt of Rivia. The White Wolf. Witcher. The most fascinating man he had ever met.

He and Geralt had parted ways three weeks prior when the Witcher accepted a contract to find and kill a werewolf terrorizing a nearby farming settlement. Though he was not one to miss the opportunity to chronicle a new adventure, Jaskier had to admit that sometimes (just maybe) Geralt was right to insist he stay behind for his personal safety. The brunet had agreed reluctantly and vowed to reunite with his taciturn companion at the next village several days hence.

But Geralt never came. 

The young bard had waited and waited. He had been a hit at the small tavern at first, for it seemed that the town did not get traveling musicians often. But after several nights he had performed his entire catalog of songs several times over and his warm welcome began to cool rapidly. In the end, small towns always disliked strangers, no matter how novel or entertaining.

What choice did he have but to go on alone?

His feet had taken him through fields and along curving dirt roads, depressing hamlet after dismal village. His wandering had been mostly aimless, but he had privately hoped that his route might be one that Geralt would also take.

His maudlin thoughts were interrupted by the proprietress letting him know that his room was ready. He nodded his thanks and left his empty flagon upon the bench. Jaskier plodded up the winding steps, having to duck occasionally where the ceiling dipped low.

He let out a quiet sigh as he leaned back against his room’s door, his eyes staring blankly up at the rafters. Finally, alone. Gods, he was tired. 

The bard turned the lock and tapped his fingers gently against the door behind him, taking in the small space. Just as advertised: a sloping ceiling cut the room at an angle, a low bed to one side, tub to the other. Along the wall near the bed a fire crackled merrily in the hearth.

With a small huff, Jaskier pushed off from the door and walked over to the hearth. After satchel and lute were stowed with care, he began the uncomfortable process of peeling himself out of his damp clothes. Said damp clothes were hung along the lower rafters near the fire ensuring that they would be dry come morning.

Jaskier dug through his worn satchel, removing a small bottle of aromatic oil. His hand hesitated over the slender black box for a moment. A thrill ran through him and he shivered. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” muttered Jaskier to himself. 

He extracted the box and placed it on the large quilt covering the bed. There. Ready for later.

He pulled the stopper from the bottle with his teeth and poured a measure of the oil into the hot water of his bath. Soon the soothing scents of lavender and chamomile rose with the steam that curled up from the surface of the water. He slipped into the tub with an obscene groan.

“Ahh…By the gods above and below, that…is…good…”

The heat from the bath seeped into the bard’s body and soothed away the lingering tension. Blindly, he felt around outside the tub until his fingers closed around a sizeable cake of soap. He sniffed it curiously, pleased to find that it smelled faintly of some kind of citrus. 

The brunet worked up a generous lather before scrubbing at his hair vigorously, his fingernails combing and massaging his scalp. Next came his body, string-calloused fingers working the suds over his lean form until the dust, grime, and sweat of the last several days dissipated into the water amongst the bubbles. 

He rose to his knees and reached for the soap again. The bard lathered up his hands once more before reaching down to cup his genitals. He washed himself slowly, luxuriating in the slick tunnel of his fist. He trembled – savoring the glide of his foreskin moving silkily back and forth over the head of his cock. 

Hardened shaft in one hand, Jaskier’s other drifted down to gently roll his sac between his fingers. It felt heavy and full, the neatly trimmed hair soft against his fingertips. He scratched his short fingernails lightly over the taut skin and moaned. It would be so easy to pretend that the hands touching him so intimately belonged to another – belonged to Geralt. And so he did.

Jaskier had learned at a young age that his sexual curiosity (particularly that which pertained to men) was both heavily discouraged and frowned upon by most. He never quite understood why but had reluctantly tucked away his growing attraction to men deep within himself. All it had really taken was the beating his uncle gave him when he had been caught sharing shy kisses with the blacksmith’s son when he was 14. Sometimes he wondered what happened to the other boy. He never saw him again.

It wasn’t until he had set off on his own that he dared to resume exploring that side of himself. No longer under the watchful eye of his family, he had cautiously embraced his new-found freedom and had had several experiences with male partners. Nothing serious, mind you. A furtive handjob here, a quick blowjob there. All in all, he had been content – these encounters acting like a heady spice for his adventures and songs.

That was until that fateful day in Posada when he had caught sight of the infamous Geralt of Rivia brooding in the corner of the tavern. He had felt blisteringly hot and frigidly cold all in the same moment. Cornflower blue eyes had swept over the other man’s face and lingered on his broad chest and massive hands. Hands that he wanted all over his body every day for the rest of his life.

One soapy finger slowly circled his entrance, dancing along the puckered skin. He didn’t often indulge in this act, but he could not deny the thrill he felt as his vivid imagination offered him several lewd scenarios, much to his delight. 

Geralt’s hands spreading him open, gradually fingering the tightness from his hole… His own fingers putting on a tantalizing show as he touched himself under the Witcher’s smoldering gaze… Oh he liked that one. Jaskier always did pride himself on be an exemplary performer. 

Smoothly he was breached by that teasing finger, the bard’s body trembling in anticipation finally met. The surrounding heat was searing, and he felt his smooth inner walls hungrily pull his digit further into his body. His inner muscles clenched and then relaxed, clenched and relaxed. If he was this tight around his finger, what would he feel like around Geralt’s cock? Jaskier let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. 

Licking his lips, he adjusted his slippery grip on the edge of the tub and wiggled a second finger in alongside the first. His entrance burned with the sudden addition, but it only served to stoke the fire within his pelvis higher. He wanted – no, needed to feel full.

“Nnn…O-Oh…Geralt…” he gasped.

He gently pumped and spread his fingers within himself, loosening up his tight hole little by little. When the soap no longer served his purposes, he reached for the small bottle of oil and twisted back to let a thin stream drizzle down into his crack. Two fingers gave way to three and soon his hips were creating choppy waves within the tub as he pressed back eagerly onto his own hand for more. 

The brunet gnawed on his lower lip as he imagined Geralt’s large sword-calloused hands reaching out to pet up and down his flanks. Maybe he would press hot open-mouthed kisses along the knobs of his spine, making his way lower and lower until the older man reached his cheeks. 

He was proud of his body and fancied that the Witcher would find his form pleasing as well. Long legs, a respectably trim waist, generously rounded bottom… He was reasonably certain Geralt was an ass man. 

Maybe Geralt would want to spank him and imprint the shape of his hands into his flesh. Then perhaps he would soothe the heat from his skin with his tongue, running the flat of it over the angry red marks. Jaskier whimpered in want.

Suddenly the stretch of his fingers felt woefully insufficient. The brunet slowly slid them free from the molten vice grip of his body. Licking his lips, Jaskier climbed out of the cooling water and made his way to the fire-warmed bedspread, oil in hand.

The flames within the hearth crackled and cast long shadows that danced against the walls of the room. Jaskier took a moment to admire the glass plug and how the light shone against its polished surface. Sweeping his damp fringe out of his eyes, he picked up the object, excited.

Oh yes. He was ready.

Jaskier rolled onto his front, knees spreading on the wash-worn quilt, his weight balanced upon his forearms. He coated the plug with a liberal application of the scented oil before reaching back and rubbing the tip of the object against his puffy hole.

In his mind, the White Wolf draped himself over his back, his breath hot and humid against the back of his neck. This Geralt “hmm’ed” softly and dragged his cock down through the cleft of the bard’s cheeks, catching on his exposed hole. Taking himself in hand, he tapped the thick head of his cock against Jaskier’s clenching entrance.

“Oh fuck, fuck…” stuttered the brunet.

Jaskier increased the pressure on the plug and it began to enter his body. The first several inches slid in easily without resistance, the oil and his previous stretching having prepared him well. His heart began to beat faster within his chest as the easy slide of the plug slowed. Undeterred, the brunet bore down, his body gradually swallowing the object near whole.

The bard’s breathing was loud in the small room when the thickest portion of the plug finally sunk in and his hole closed around the flared base. He wiped his sweating palms on the quilt. He wished he had a mirror, for this must surely have been a sight to behold. He could hardly believe he had succeeded in fitting the entire plug within himself.

“Mmm…Sweetheart. Look at you…” murmured his imagined Geralt.

Phantom touches skimmed over his hips and pulled his cheeks apart to admire the smooth plug nestled deep within his body. A rough fingertip circled his flushed rim where heated skin met steadily warming glass.

“Feel good, Jaskier?” husked that smoky voice.

The bard’s head jerked up and down, an affirmative mewl escaping his lips.

“You know it only gets better, right?” said the Witcher, amusement coloring his tone.

When had he shut his eyes? Jaskier squeezed his eyelids shut even tighter as he pulled the glass plug out a few inches and then pushed it back in again. Gods that stretch was delicious. It straddled the line of being on the wrong side of painful, but he was already lost to it.

The room was filled with the soft creaking of the bed and Jaskier’s gasping moans as he fucked himself with the plug. When he changed the angle of his thrusts he almost screamed as white-hot sparks shot through his veins. Yes, he definitely needed more of that.

Dazedly, he cracked his eyelids open and stared down at his ruddy length, fat drops of precum welling from the tip. Jaskier wasn’t sure he had ever felt anything this intense in all his encounters with lovers. He felt like he was on the verge of shattering apart from the pleasurable waves wracking his body. 

Still, it was not enough. How could it not be enough?

Determined to cum, the bard dropped his weight to his left shoulder so that he could use both of his hands. His fingers closed around his length and he began to stroke himself roughly. The wrist working the plug began to ache.

“Do you want to come, Sweetheart?” murmured that rough voice.

“Yes, yes, yes… Please, Geralt! Please let me come…” begged Jaskier.

Oh gods, he felt like he was going to black out.

“Then come for me, my good boy,” purred his Geralt.

A long, high-pitched whine escaped him as his body seized and he came explosively against the quilt. His channel clenched almost painfully around the plug, milking it resolutely as if it were a lover’s cock instead of a toy.

Jaskier shakily collapsed down on the bed, tremors and twitches rolling through his body. He swallowed, his throat sticking and dry. He hoped that he wouldn’t be hoarse come morning. He reached back to ease the plug from his body and dropped it unceremoniously onto the stained coverlet.

The bard took a long breath through his nose and exhaled slowly. His heartrate was steadily returning to normal, the perspiration on his skin cooling. A lazy smile crossed his lips as he turned his face to stare into the hearth. 

\- -

The door to the inn opened to reveal a tall figure backlit by a bolt of lightning in the sky. The stranger strode in, a dripping black hood obscuring his face. 

“Madam,” called the stranger.

The proprietress looked up from the flagon she was filling, taking in the sight of the soaked traveler. He was a sight to behold. Tall and broad with two swords strapped to his back.

“Ay ‘ate ta break it ta ya, but we be out o’ rooms ta’night.”

The stranger grunted.

“Not what I’m here for,” he said. “Looking for a friend. He’s a bard – carries a lute with him.”

Recognition lit up the woman’s brown eyes. She nodded, setting down the full flagon and wiped spilled ale from her hands upon the apron at her waist.

“Friend o’ his? Nice lad, tha’ one,” she said. “Look’d awful lonely… Top floor – ya can’t miss it. Bet he’ll be glad ta see a friend.”

The Witcher nodded his thanks and turned to make his way up the long staircase. When he made it to the final landing, he raised his fist to knock on the door’s wooden frame. He paused, however when he heard a muffled moan come from the other side of the door. One white eyebrow arched.

The moan sounded again, sounding louder and sweeter than the last. Ah, Jaskier had company. Geralt sighed and rolled his eyes. Of course, he had company. The Witcher turned and took a step to head back down the stairs when he heard it.

“Yes, yes, yes… Please, Geralt! Please let me come…”

Amber eyes widened and he turned to look at the door dumbly. Clearly, he needn’t have worried whether his little bard had missed him. Geralt’s mouth twitched. He smiled.


End file.
